Instead of a View
by Cebaje
Summary: After years of silence, Clarice receives a cryptic letter from Dr. Lecter. A trip to Baltimore helps her uncover some disturbing secrets about Hannibal's life before his incarceration. R for later chapters. Chapter 4 is up!
1. Default Chapter

November 4th, 1993  
  
Dearest Clarice,  
  
If I were forced to delegate a season in which to spend the rest of my days, I would choose Fall. There is something so sacred about the simple beauty of the turning leaves, a beauty most people seem to underestimate. Though anyone can appreciate the sight of the foliage of summer blooming into delicious shades of orange and copper, I wonder how many of those skyward glances elicit the truth of the fiery trees? They are dying, Agent Starling, and we pause to take pictures.  
  
Where I am now, there is little to discriminate one season from the next. It is always warm enough to wade far away from the shoreline. I sometimes find myself standing in the shallow water for the better part of an hour, content to simply watch the gnarled white waves as they break past the jutting arms of the coral fields.  
  
Baltimore is especially lovely in the latter months of the year. I recommend that you visit some time, Agent Starling. The college campus is home to a fine assortment of trees that present an exquisite palette most pleasing to the eye.  
  
If you do get around to it, Clarice, I would adore hearing from you.  
  
Goodbye for now-  
  
H.  
  
P.S. -- God slays Himself with every leaf that flies and hell is more than half of Paradise. Edward Arlington Robinson  
  
---  
  
The letter came in a plain brown padded envelope that smelled faintly of stale cigars. Included with the single sheet of parchment was a tiny finger of peach colored coral, rough edges worn smooth by the waves. Clarice Starling felt almost nostalgic as she held the lightweight curl in her hand, touched by a sudden sense of overwhelming exhaustion and sadness. She knew who the letter was from even before she opened it. Starling suspected that she'd developed some kind of sixth sense when it came to Lecter, for she had unearthed a pair of sterile gloves from her bottom drawer as soon as she'd seen that flagrant loopy penning of her name.  
  
Everyone else had long since retired to reluctant spouses and children who were growing up too fast. Though most would have been spooked by the utter, eerie quiet that pounded in the darkness, Clarice was comforted. Silence was a rare commodity in her life.  
  
She squinted her eyes as she perused the letter again, a cursory check for any stray fibers or grains of sand. The coral was slipped into her pocket. She told herself it really wasn't necessary that anyone know about it.  
  
Baltimore in the Fall, she mused. Coral fields. He was definitely eluding to something he wanted her to know. But an explanation would have been just...too simple. She imagined he was taking great pleasure in the thought that she would be digging frantically through files and folders for a secret he held at leisure on some sun warmed beach a million miles from Washington.  
  
She scrawled the words ''coral fields'' on a naked sheet of note paper. A few attempted permutations of the letters yielded none of the Doctor's infamous anagrams, or at least none that made any logical sense.  
  
Perhaps his case file would shed some light upon the situation. Stretching against the stiff plastic chair, Clarice wandered from her tiny, cramped cubicle into the file room. She flicked on the light switch and winced, pupils contracting in the onslaught of harsh florescence.  
  
Lecter's case file was the same as it had been the other four hundred and seventeen times she had looked through it, both on assigned errand and in shamed secret, following through with the morbid fascination that seemed to follow her every where she went.  
  
The grisly crime scene photos did not make her wince anymore. She thumbed past them as easily as you would thumb through the irritating ads in a favorite magazine. Newspaper clippings she'd read a thousand times. There were exactly eighty four, not counting those doubled because they were run in several different papers. Suddenly Clarice frowned and peered closer. At the very back of the file, stuck to the edge of the report describing Lecter's incarceration, was a small, two column, yellowing scrap of paper that looked as though it had been shoved into the folder as an afterthought.  
  
Careful not to tear the fragile newsprint, Clarice extracted the article and held it a few inches away from her face, squinting to read the words that had faded with time. As she read, her mouth went unpleasantly dry.  
  
---  
  
LOCAL STUDENT FOUND DEAD  
  
The body of twenty three year old Cora Fielding was found late Sunday afternoon in her campus apartment. She was discovered by local psychiatrist Dr. Hannibal Lecter, who instructed Fielding in a weekly psychiatry course at the University of Baltimore. Lecter told police that the young woman had missed her last two classes and had failed to respond to friends' and neighbors' phone calls. When he went by to check on her, he found the door unlocked. Dr. Lecter states that Fielding's wrists and arms were slashed, and that she had apparently bled to death. The death has been ruled as a suicide, with no foul play suspected. Services for Ms. Fielding will be held at Somerset Funeral Home at three PM on Wednesday.  
  
---  
  
"What did you do to her, Doctor Lecter?" Clarice murmured as she read the article again. On the back, someone had scribbled the date--11/04/1976. Twenty years ago to the day.  
  
Dr. Lecter-  
  
Twenty years is a long time, isn't it? I often wonder how it is that we manage to retain so much information over the decades. It seems that the human mind should become too cluttered after a while, and that those memories that are too old or too painful would disappear.  
  
Unfortunately, that is not the way it works. I've learned that sometimes memories can be more powerful that reality. Memories can drive us to insanity. And what was it you said, Doctor? Memory is what you have instead of a view. Well, you've got your view now, it seems. So why do you dredge up the past?  
  
As you probably expected, I'm now on my way to Baltimore to find out what you want me to know about the late Cora Fielding. Who was she, Doctor? More than just a pupil, I'm willing to bet.  
  
I am not even sure this letter will reach you, as I imagine you have a network of false addresses and ghost PO boxes to keep us from tracing your whereabouts. If it does, however, please write back.  
  
Enjoy your sunny beach, Doctor Lecter. It appears your freedom agrees with you a great deal more than it does with the FBI.  
  
Best Wishes- Clarice M. Starling.  
  
  
  
Clarice photocopied her letter and left a draft on Crawford's desk, along with a quick note explaining what she planned to do in Baltimore. She had a nagging feeling that this would not sit well with the higher-ups in admin, but she had three weeks vacation time coming if Krendler tried to throw a wrench in the gears.  
  
It was a few minutes past two in the morning when Clarice pulled out of the parking lot, the headlights of the Mustang reflecting in the black windows like the eyes of some hunted beast. She turned the radio up too loud as she slid onto the thin ribbon of highway, focusing only on the dimness ahead and ignoring the changing foliage that flanked the road.  
  
---  
  
My Dearest Agent Starling~  
  
It is very kind of you to respond to my letter. Tell me, does Jack Crawford know we are carrying on like this? How terribly jealous he must feel.  
  
I-  
  
Hannibal paused, his pen clamped firmly between strong, solid teeth. A stout Tahitian breeze kicked up the sand and sent it scattering over his paper and the small desk he used as a writing surface. The corner of the parchment fluttered against the wind, beating against his fingers like a butterfly's wing. He stared out over the balcony for several long, silent moments. In the forgotten fraction of one of them, he caught the phantom scent of lavender. His throat constricted involuntarily.  
  
A girl with eyes the color of warm honey  
  
I hope you-  
  
Her hair alive with amber fire  
  
I hope you enjoy B-  
  
The smell of skin and Vivaldi on the record player  
  
I hope you enjoy Baltimore. I am-  
  
The taste of blood in a fledgling kiss  
  
I am-  
  
Subj. was approx. three weeks  
  
I am c-  
  
three weeks three weeks three weeks  
  
Hannibal set his pen down reluctantly, face unreadable in the citrusy afternoon light. He had begun this, after all, he had wanted her to know. Taking a long draught from his half-empty glass of Perignon, he relaxed against the breeze and let the memory draw him in. 


	2. Chapter 2

ATTN: ALL GRAD STUDENTS MAJORING IN PSYCH  
  
Local psychiatrist Dr. Hannibal Lecter, MD  
  
is conducting a one-semester lecture course  
  
on the general makeup of the Sociopath.  
  
Open to 10 students only.  
  
Cost is 100$ for full semester.  
  
Those interested call 791-0087 between 3-5PM before Friday the 12th.  
  
  
  
A stiff north wind ruffled the girl's strawberry hair, stirring pale red- blonde curls like the feathers of a bleached cardinal. She was busy scribbling the number on her hand with the blunt tip of her fountain pen when a voice drifted from over her shoulder.  
  
"Where are you gonna get a hundred bucks, red?" The voice teased good naturedly, her narrow face breaking into a smile as her companion turned to glare.  
  
"I'll work a few extra shifts. It won't take me long." Cora replied, turning back to her project and scrawling the last three digits on her palm.  
  
"Don't you think you've got enough going on, Cor? I mean, shit, Rutherford's class is hard enough, plus you've got Fletcher and Griffith to worry about."  
  
Cora capped her pen and rolled her eyes at her dark-haired friend. She started walking away from the campus message board, motioning for her companion to follow.  
  
"Just because you were barely able to drag yourself through last year doesn't mean I'll have the same problem, Julia." The duo trotted down the worn stone steps, out of the breezeway and into the bronze-sepia explosion that signified fall's late arrival.  
  
Julia punched playfully at her friend's arm, missing by a mile and thudding against her book heavy knapsack instead.  
  
"Owow! What've you got in there, bricks?" She whined, nursing her throbbing knuckles as they marched across the quad.  
  
"They're called books, Jules. Sometimes when you open them and stare at the little black scribbles on the page, you learn stuff. "  
  
The student parking lot was sparsely dotted with a few lone vehicles. Almost everyone had gone home by this time of evening. The girls approached Cora's new VW, a present from her parents for finishing all her PreMed courses. The damn thing guzzled gas and got less mileage than the old Gremlin, but at least it ran and didn't have to be jimmied with a pencil when it stalled at a traffic light.  
  
"Aren't you just the little comedian." Julia commented dryly as she slid into the Bug's passenger seat. Cora wriggled into the driver's side and gunned the engine, wheeling the little car out of the parking spot.  
  
They rode in comfortable silence for a minute or so, as it only took that long to reach the student housing on the other side of campus. Cora coasted up to the first cluster of three-story apartments and slowed to a stop.  
  
"Don't you want to come up for a while?" Julia asked as she opened the door, even though she already knew the answer.  
  
"Nah. I'm going to call the number on that flyer and see if there are any openings left. Plus I've got a quiz in M-''  
  
"Oh, fine, fine. Call me later."  
  
- "I will." She wouldn't, but the act of saying it seemed to placate Julia, who waved a quick goodbye before trotting up the iron staircase to her apartment. Cora watched, golden eyes unblinking, until Julia dissapeared inside the apartment. Then she threw the car into first and headed home.  
  
Her apartment was unerringly tidy and well decorated, something Julia teased her about to no end. Cora tossed her keys on the end table as she walked in, perhaps to prove a point, since she normally hung them on the little rack just by the door. Something warm and furry brushed against her leg, and she reached down to absently scratch the ears of the little gray kitten her boyfriend had given her the week before.  
  
Boyfriend might have been somewhat of an overstatement on Cora's behalf. She and Dave had been...''together'' since the start of the semester, but certain aspects of their relationship were sorely lacking.  
  
As she was bending to scoop up the feline, the phone in the kitchen jangled and sent a hard tremble through her body. The kitten scampered under the couch and Cora scrambled to yank the phone from the reciever.  
  
" 'Lo?" She said breathlessly, stumbling over the kitten that darted from its hiding place and through the tiny kitchen.  
  
"Hey, baby."  
  
Cora cringed at the endearment and twisted the phone cord around her forefinger. She heaved a sigh and tried to keep the irritation from seeping into her voice.  
  
"Hi."  
  
"Got plans for dinner?"  
  
"Yeah, I've made a date with my anatomy textbook. I think it'd be dissapointed if I cancelled."  
  
"Want a study partner?"  
  
"No thanks, Dave. I think I'd do better not to be distracted by you." There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then a muffled cough.  
  
"Uh huh. Well...did you see that flyer I was telling you about?"  
  
"Sure did. I was just about to call."  
  
"Well, I'll go ahead and let you go. Call me later?"  
  
"I will." She wouldn't.  
  
"Alright. Bye, sweet-"  
  
"Goodbye, Dave."  
  
Dead air. She put the phone back in its cradle long enough for the dial tone to register again,and then she picked it up and punched in the number.  
  
Ring, ring, ring. Cora was about to hang up when the fourth was cut off.  
  
"Good afternoon, Doctor Lecter's office, how may I help you?" Droned a tinny voice, accent edged in Bostonian tones. Cora cleared her throat, glancing out the window as she spoke, her eyes catching and following the fall of a single, blood red leaf.  
  
"Hi...uhm...my name's Cora Fielding, I saw the flyer on the campus message board.''  
  
"Be at fifty-six Commerce at four tomorrow afternoon. Suite E."  
  
"But I've got a class at three thirty..."  
  
"And please, don't be late." There was a click, and a few moments of silence stretched before Cora shook her head and hung up the phone.  
  
"Guess I'll miss my three-thirty, Cleo." She muttered to the kitten, who had curled around her ankle while she talked. Stooping down, she gathered the kitten and toted her into the living room, where a stack of notecards and ten pages of today's lecture waited patiently to be studied.  
  
She settled into the couch, Cleo sprawling across her lap with all the luxury of an Egyptian temple cat. The robin egg cast of daylight's blue was fading into lush velvet, and Cora could see a sliver of indigo sky through the slats of the blinds. It was almost enough to distract her, and for a moment flashed the distinct memory of bare toes kicking at a sky that same color, lost in the gangling windmill of a little girl's first sucessful cartwheel.  
  
The kitten lowed a recalitrant meowl when Cora displaced her in order to light the tip of lavender incense cone. Dry smoke wafted in syrupy coils, staining the air with that ashy-pale scent that Cora had come to associate as being strictly her own. Sufficiently lulled into a calm, quiet mode of study, she seized the belligerent kitten, who had now lost her sense of rest and was intent on inflicting serious damaged upon her benefactor's green sweater.  
  
"Suit yourself," Cora declared, depositing her ill-behaved familiar onto the nubby oriental carpet. The kitten plucked at the pattern for a moment in a thoughtful knead, resigning to skitter under the couch when Cora swatted her reproachfully.  
  
After half an hour, Rutherford's notes on the brain map were beginning to look a little less like Greek, and Cora felt the day's tension melting into her overstuffed sofa. Cleo had long since retired from her duty as destroyer of dust bunnies and was now comfortably stretched along the top of the couch.  
  
The sun sank lower, and so did Cora's eyelids. Rutherford's class was boring enough; studying this overly intricate swill took more concentration than she could muster at the moment. Visions of the frontal lobe smeared before her eyes, and her chin dropped to her chest.  
  
Bangbangbang! She sat up with a startled gasp, her textbook and notecards sliding off her lap and landing in a scattered heap at her feet. The kitten hissed at the commotion, her grey tail puffed like a bottlebrush.  
  
"Who's there?" Cora called, her voice thick with anxiety and sleep-heavy surprise. There was no response for a moment, and then,  
  
"It's me, babe," Dave's voice drifted through the door.  
  
Cora cringed, and the revulsion she felt brought hot tears to her eyes. I'm twenty-two God damned years old, she thought bitterly, this should be gone by now.  
  
She shoved that aching, distended feeling back into darkness, where it belonged. Now all that remained was the gentle, unflappable calm for which she was so notorious. Shaking off a cascade of nerves that grated against her spine, she plastered a thin smile across her lips. She'd be alright. Normal.  
  
Dave knew, innately, that Cora was not pleased to see him. She never really seemed happy to have his company, something he could not manage to fathom. Her interest in him had been so obvious, the attraction so feirce that he had been completely taken aback by the sudden change when he finally asked her out.  
  
They had spent several friendly evenings together in the company of mutual aquaintances, flirting shamelessly and talking, sometimes for an hour or more. Dave had immediately recognized her brilliance, and had been instantly drawn not only to her beauty ( which was formidable ) but also her insicive, dry wit and her sharp attention to detail. She was a challenge, and he adored that.  
  
Everything had seemed to be progressing along a nice, even track, with a few phone calls and impromptu lunch meetings strengthening their friendship. It was when he tried to kiss her one night, after they'd seen a movie and gone to eat...she stiffened in his arms as if he'd struck her. It seemed to come from nowhere.  
  
Why he continued this relationship, he would never know. She would not let him touch her, and sometimes she shunned him completely. She went through phases; it seemed that when his interest started to wan, she would reel him in again with a soft whisper or warm-wet eyes and a coveted chest to chest hug. And then her scent would remain on him for days, sustinence when she refused to see him or answer the phone when he called. Cora Feilding was finely wired. He knew this, and he loved her for it.  
  
But sometimes he wanted her so badly, it made him weak.  
  
"I know you said you were busy," He apologized, feeling small under her gaze, even though she was half a foot shorter than he and there was only a cool kind of greeting in her eyes.  
  
"It's alright, I was dozing off." Cora interrupted, uncharacteristically friendly. She opened the door all the way to let him in.  
  
"I just thought I'd come by and see if I could tear you away for dinner." He couldn't resist reaching up to brush a stray curl from her forehead. The color reminded him of burnt honey. She didn't flinch, which surprised him a little.  
  
"I can't," She said simply, smiling up at him. The lump in her throat was tangible. At any moment she would fly at him, tear at his face and hate him for wanting her. And then she would wear something slim and flattering and smell so sweet, and he would need her again.  
  
Interpreting her answer in the only way plausible, Dave shrugged amicably and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. He stepped back, unaware of her sharp intake of breath and the way her nails dug half-moons into her palms.  
  
"What time is your appointment with Dr. Lecter tomorrow?" He asked, leaning back against the door. Cleo stalked up to him, meowled a greeting and began batting at his shoelaces.  
  
"Four. I tried to tell the secretary I had a class, but she wouldn't listen." Cora explained, nudging the kitten with her toe.  
  
"I had the same problem. Mine's at two. But I talked to Dr. Griffith, and he said I could sit in on his noon class tomorrow. "  
  
"Good." Cora's gaze shifted to the upset studying, and then back to Dave's stubble shadowed face. She smiled wanly and shrugged. "Guess I better.."  
  
"I hear ya. Call me later. Sorry for disturbing you." He reached down and clumsily scratched Cleo's ears, offered a grin, and let himself out.  
  
As Cora watched his car putter onto the street, she felt the threat of tears again. The spot where he kissed her cheek tingled and burned; it was as though she had been branded. She rubbed her skin, hard, but was unable to erase the thin, acidic layer of his affection.  
  
Pushing all these unpleasantries to the side, she swallowed the chunk of pain in her throat and went back to work, the scent of lavender slowly replacing that of Dave's lingering cologne. 


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal Lecter, MD, glanced up from his desk, a finger marking his place in the book he was reading. The young man who bustled through the frosted glass door was fifteen minutes late. This did not bode well at all, and would certainly hinder his chances at a spot in the class.  
  
"I apologize, Dr. Lecter. The traffic was terrible." Dave beseeched as he slid into the large leather chair across from the desk. Hannibal nodded, a thin smile crossing his lips. He could smell the lie, and immediately dissaproved of this potential student.  
  
"It's quite alright, I'm sure. Please, make yourself comfortable. This will only take a few mintues." Hannibal responded, leaning forward to rest his palms on the smooth mahogany of the desk. He glanced at the clock on the wall, a gesture so quick that the boy probably didn't even catch it. Only one more of these dreaded student interviews...if he hadn't owed a favor to the Dean of the Psychology department, he would never have agreed to take on the task of teaching the course. As it were, the class would have to laspe into the next semester, since they were starting so late. That meant teaching through the holidays. Hannibal masked a grimace with a polite smile and turned to face the eager young man.  
  
"First...what is your name? I assume you know mine."  
  
Dave smirked at the quip and cleared his throat. "David Pellerin," He replied, looking past the doctor to a rather interesting sculpture on the windowsil. With his eyes still averted he continued, adding,"But most people just call me Dave."  
  
"Very well, Mr. Pellerin. Most people call me Doctor Lecter. I'm sure you won't mind. Now...shall I tell you a bit about the class?"  
  
"Of course," Dave said, brows knitting ever so slightly. He'd have to warn Cora about this asshole. What a stiff.  
  
"There will be no examinations. Your grade will be based on a weekly meeting we will have, one on one, wherein you will tell me what you believe you have learned in the previous class. You will be subject to a mental status exam, if you are chosen. I assume you are familiar with the format..- "  
  
"Of course. They teach that the first year." Dave interrupted, his tone bordering on acidic. Hannibal felt his skin bristle and his palms start to itch.  
  
"Pardon me, then. " His gaze lifted to the clock again. If he sent this insolent little boy away now, he'd have time to make rounds before the next interview. Making a great show of straightening a stack of papers on his desk, he looked back down to Dave, who was staring at the statue again. "Lovely, isn't it?" He noted, turning back to join in perusal.  
  
"It's..different." Dave replied. The statue was a twisting of red wire and black mesh, contorted and bent so that it made the effigy of a profile, lips slightly ajar, as if caught in mid-gasp or scream. It almost made him shudder. He found it difficult to make direct contact with the Doctor, whose own gaze was of the strangest shade he'd even seen...even stranger than Cora's champange colored eyes. Lecter's were more...like wine. The comparison brought a fleeting, inappropriate smile to Dave's lips.  
  
"Well, Mr. Pellerin, it was nice to meet you. My secretary will contact you with the neccesary information." Hannibal broke the moment of silence, his voice even and measured and with little inflection.  
  
"That's it?" Dave asked, one dark brow arching. Damn, that was easy.  
  
"That's it," Hannibal replied, his tone drenched in sacchrine. Dave rose, thanked him, and stalked rather proudly out of the office, never bothering to consider the fact that neither Lecter nor the secretary had asked him for his phone number.  
  
...*...  
  
Cora, on the other hand, was not late for her appoinment. She arrived twenty minutes early, and was perched on a stiff-backed armchair in the waiting room when Doctor Lecter returned from making rounds at the hospital. He paused a moment to speak to the secretary, who nodded toward Cora and said something unintelligible.  
  
After a moment, the little partition slid open, and the blue-haired receptionist leaned out to drawl -  
  
"Dr. Lecter will see you now."  
  
Cora was vaguely repulsed by the smear of lipstick on the woman's large front tooth, and hurried into the office as quickly as propriety would allow.  
  
"Good afternoon." Hannibal greeted the small young woman with more enthusiasm than he had her predecessor, for her arrival signaled both the end of the day and the last of the interviews. He watched her closely, noting the way her eyes never seemed to land on one particular object - the way she stood, hands folded behind her back...almost as if she were at attention, or perhaps a child waiting to be scolded. Interesting. She smelled of lavender...but softly, like a whisper. He felt his forehead furrow without provocation.  
  
"'Afternoon, Doctor. May I sit down?" Cora replied, her gaze travelling from the finely woven silk draperies to the man before her. He nodded, and gestured to the chair. As she approached, he caught a glimpse of a thin line of scars on the inside of her left elbow. Cat scratches, perhaps? She pulled the chair back farther than was neccesary and sat, heels settling in the carpet grooves left by the legs of the chair.  
  
"Thank you for your interest in the class," Lecter began, reminding himself that his duty transcended analyzation. "Would you like to know a little bit about the class itself?"  
  
"Yes, please." Cora answered, her eyes meeting the Doctor's, well-framed by sleek brows. "Intense" would be the only way to describe this man. She knew that right off the bat, and had barely spent half a minute in his presence. She watched him carefully, cautious of his movements as she was with any man. He seemed very collected...almost...too calm. Something throbbed beneath the soft baritone of his voice, something fleeting and forgetful that she could not place.  
  
"No examinations, no quizes, no papers or disertations. Your grade will be based on a weekly meeting with me, where you will discuss what you learned from the week's class. I will grade you on your comprehension of the lectures and any reading I may assign you. If you are chosen, you will be subject to a mental status exam - "  
  
"Why?" Cora asked too quickly, her head canting to one side. Hannibal smiled at her inquiry, relishing the fact that she was the only one of the candidates who had bothered to ask.  
  
"Mostly to judge your stress level. Medical students, particular those who plan to go into psychiatry or psycology, have a tendency to stretch themselves too thin. I only want to teach those that I am certain can handle an extra class, those who will not be wasting my time and their own."  
  
Cora nodded, somewhat satisfied with this answer.  
  
"The class will meet on Tuesdays at five thirty in the evening. Is that compatible with your schedule...Miss...?"  
  
"Fielding. Cora. " She replied, "And yes, that should be feasible. I work as a waitress at a restaurant, so I'll just make sure to ask for Tuesday evenings off."  
  
Somehow, Hannibal could not picture this woman serving other people. It seemed...gauche. He settled back in the chair, his expression unreadable.  
  
"Tell me a bit about yourself, Ms. Fielding. Why do you want to take this class?"  
  
"Well, I know that you're one of the best forensic psychiatrists in the area. And that's the field I am most interested in." She answered, shifting slightly in the chair to cross one leg over the other. As she did this, Hannibal caught sight of another row of scars decorating the top of her thigh, quickly hidden by a clever tug of her fingers to resecure the length of her skirt. She did not know that he noticed.  
  
"Very good. Difficult line of work you've chosen. Do you plan on having a private practice as well?"  
  
"I'd like to. I know it's difficult to build a clientele."  
  
"I wouldn't call them clientele, Ms. Fielding." Hannibal smiled, noticing with some interest that she almost flinched at the amusement in his voice.  
  
"Patient repetiore, then." She corrected herself, glancing at her wristwatch reflexively. She had to be at work in fifteen mintues, and the traffic would be heinous if she didn't get out of here soon. She couldn't place her finger on the other reason she was so eager to leave the office, though it hovered implaccably beneath her skin. She was awash with a sense of vertigo that felt almost unshakeable.  
  
"I won't keep you any longer. Leave your number with my receptionist, and I will have her call you with the details." He recognized her hurry, saw her look at her watch and then the clock. Rising from the desk, he extended a hand to her. "It was lovely to have met you, Ms. Fielding."  
  
Her hesitation to grasp his palm was so scant that he thought he may have imagined it, though his suspicion was confirmed when she trembled ( just a shade above imperceptibly ) at contact. Three more scars, white with age, on the underside of her wrist.  
  
"And you, Doctor Lecter. " She dropped his hand and excused herself from the office.  
  
Long after she was gone, Lecter couldn't quite seem to shake off the spice of lavender. 


	4. Chapter 4

At a quarter after three, Clarice pulled into the parking lot of the White Timber motel. As she neared the Baltimore city limits, exhaustion had hit her like a sixteen ton freighter. The neon sign above reflected blue on the hood of the mustang, proclaiming VA ANCY in crackling electric letters.  
  
The clerk inside was young, perhaps in his early twenties. It took Clarice several tries to effectively tear his attention away from the old 9-inch black and white he was watching. He stared blankly at her for a moment, lips parted slightly, stupored by the interruption.  
  
"I'd like a room," Clairce said, and her voice seemed harsh and out of place in the low quiet of the office. The boy shook his head to clear his vision. His voice was soft and almost feminine when he finally answered.  
  
"How many nights?"  
  
"Just one. A single, please." Clarice answered, reaching to dig her wallet out of her jacket. The boy nodded and fumbled around beneath the desk for a few seconds before producing a small, tarnished brass key attached to a red plastic tree-shaped chain.  
  
"Forty bucks even. Number six. Wanna wakeup call?" He droned, his attention already travelling back to the television. Clarice shook her head, and then realizing the gesture would be lost, replied with -  
  
"No, thank you." She slapped two twenty dollar bills down on the table and pocketed the key. The clerk nodded absently, his hard, angular face lit by the silver glow of the television.  
  
The motel room was small and ugly, with three inch thick yellow carpet and a horrible clashing green comforter. The smell of mold and cheap air freshener hung like a soupy fog, but Clarice was so tired that she could hardly care. Collapsing on the hard-springed bed with a groan, her eyes itchy with exhaustion, she had barely enough energy to shed her jacket and was asleep before her second shoe hit the floor.  
  
...*...  
  
"You'll be fine, Honey. Grandpa will take good care of you."  
  
"Mamma, I-"  
  
"We'll be back on Sunday morning. You'll hardly know we were gone."  
  
Smoke and darkness. Raspy air laced with the mist of a timeworn gasper, phlegm and blood rattling in his lungs. The room, painted yellow, with photocopied prints of the Holy Mother nailed ( frameless ) to the walls. Everything was tall, shadowed and still. Six year old Cora was dwarfed by the respirator machine, its archaic dial glowing a dim, evil orange. She hovered near the bed, trembling and tiny.  
  
"C'mere, Red. I wanna tell you something." His voice lingered on the edge of a whisper, the last words drowned by the acordian pump of the venhilator.  
  
"I donwanna." the child replied, twisting the hem of her plaid jumper in her hot, chubby hands. The breathing machince groaned like a great metal monster, its long, twisty snout attatched to a cup over Grandpa's mouth.  
  
"Remember what happened to Ticky?"  
  
Ticky was a small black kitten Cora had gotten for her birthday. The last time she said no to Grandpa, she had found Ticky in the closet with her head turned around backwards.  
  
"Yeth." She lisped, shaking harder.  
  
"Remember..." A long, labored pause, in which the monster growled and seethed and pumped more flat air into Grandpa's lungs. "Remember what I said?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"Do you want to be like Ticky, Cora?"  
  
"Nuh-uh."  
  
"Then come here. That's it. Climb up here." Pause. "Closer. Closer. Good." Pause. "Good Girl. Good. Yes."  
  
Pause. A wretching, hateful pain.  
  
She screamed.  
  
...*...  
  
Cora woke up keening, her twenty two ( twenty three in eight days ) year old body wracked with traitorous sobs. She pitched forward in the bed, her insides twisted and clenching. Cleo, who would never suffer the same dreadful fate as Ticky, found herself crushed to a grown woman's chest and rocked like a child.  
  
... * ... 


	5. Chapter 5 R

A/N: I swear to God, I know how to capitalize proper nouns. This chapter is not for the blood squeamish. Also, I don't want to hear any flak about a certain mythical-creature-turned-name-of-a-knife-blade. It will all make sense in the end.  
  
"Shift's up, Fielding. Get out of here. And have a good weekend."  
  
Cora wiped her hands on her filthy apron, tugged the soiled thing over her head, and tossed it in the pile near the employee exit. Thank the Lord she wasn't on wash duty.  
  
Outside, the air was twenty degrees colder and a great deal thinner than in the Sunny Side cafe. The evening bustle of Baltimore throbbed all the way to her bones, the 8:00 traffic just heating up after the post- work lull. The Sunny Side was just a block and a half away from Baltimore's downtown district, and Cora could almost feel the seedy itch of the steady-growing nightlife. Her car was parked in the lot across the street, a dark, tinmetal forest of great hulking shapes. Everything seemed monstrous lately.  
  
Cora did not see the figure standing next to her car. She was too pre- occupied with digging for her keys. It wasn't until she felt a hand on her shoulder that she realized she was not alone. A scream bubbled in her chest and she stumbled backward, ready to strike blindly at whatever thing had transcended morbid imagination to become a real danger.  
  
"Jesus, babe! It's me!"  
  
"GOD DAMNIT, DAVE!" Cora screeched, pummeling him with a fist. "Don't ever, EVER do that to me again!"  
  
"Sorry! I thought you saw me. I was standing right-"  
  
"If I had seen you, I'd have said 'Oh, hello there, Dave.' You almost gave me a fucking heart attack." Cora leaned against her car, a safe distance away, her pulse pounding bullets in her throat.  
  
"I'm sorry!" Dave reached in to give her a hug, which she accepted, albeit stiffly and with little return. He stepped back, hands on her shoulders, a funny little smirk courting his lips. "I'll give you a heads up next time, I swear."  
  
"Good," Cora replied, lifting her chin in mild defiance. To her surprise, she was still trembling. "So, what were you doing, besides waiting to scare me half to death?"  
  
"I'm taking you out tonight." He proclaimed, rather proudly, as if this ''taking out'' was some new and exciting thing he'd discovered.  
  
"No way. I'm exhau-"  
  
"Before you lay down all your reasons, let me talk." He interrupted, holding a hand up to shush her. "You've had a long week, babe. I just want to go out, have a few drinks, eat, dance a little and then I'll take you home. Nothing major. You need to relax."  
  
"And I think the best way to do that would be in a bathtub, or on the couch with my cat." She snipped back, rather surreptitiously.  
  
"When's the last time you went out on a Friday night, Cora? Honestly."  
  
He had her there. It had been months. Her summers were spent working for her father, and since school started, every weekend had been devoted to studying. She could not remember the last time she did anything...fun. A drink didn't sound so bad. In fact, it sounded rather appealing. She glanced up at Dave, his handsome features pulled down into a ridiculous pout. A surge of power trickled down her spine, and she nodded.  
  
"All right. But don't expect me to be entertaining."  
  
...*...  
  
"Don't you think that's enough, toots?" The bartender asked, his voice loud and harsh over the music. Cora shrugged and tottered to one side, stumbling backward into Dave's arms. In an unseen gesture, he held up a finger to indicate one more. The bartender shrugged and shoved Cora's seventh shot of tequilla across the counter.  
  
"My tongue is numb!" Cora screeched, and then raised her shotglass in a partnerless toast. Dave laughed and turned her around to look at him. She squinted; first with one eye, and then the other. Then she grinned and threw her arms around his neck, her weight shifted so that she dangled like a puppet.  
  
"What ya wanna do, babe?" Dave asked, staring down at her, amazed that her eyes were still as clear as honey. She cocked her head to the side and sighed, her breath blasting liquor fumes. This display should have been unnerving, or at the least a turn off. For Dave, it was neither.  
  
"I wanna go home. You have to come, too, okay?" Her grip tightened, and she seemed almost frantic for a moment. "Okay? You come, okay?"  
  
"Of course, baby. Ready to go now?"  
  
"Uh huh." Cora nodded and straightened up, hovering with one arm on the bar as Dave pushed a twenty across the table to pay for their tab. Then he scooped Cora up, and in a disturbingly childlike manor, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and buried her face in his neck.  
  
Once back at the house, Cora carreened around the kitched in a futile attempt to make coffee. Dave continually insisted that while the gesture was appreciated, it was unneccesary. This only fueled Cora's efforts further, at least until she spilled boiling water on her arm and dissolved into a mess of tears.  
  
"Poor Baby, poor little girl. Come here." Dave collected the drunk, sobbing girl into his arms and raised her wrist to his lips. Cora stopped crying at once and watched, transfixed, as he placed a soft, gentle kiss on the red flamed skin.  
  
It all seemed natural, then, when his mouth traveled the length of her arm and trailed her neck. Cora felt hot and prickly, like someone was poking her from within. His hands roamed her back, he found her lips, and she was unable to do anything. He kissed her, his mouth demanding and harsh, his fingers quick to wriggle under her shirt and beneath the waistband of her jeans. Everything was happening so fast..and..it felt good, didn't it?  
  
He had her pressed against the counter, her spine painfully aligned with the formica edge. A hand on her naked thigh now, his fingers grazing the raised, crisscrossed scars with nothing more than minimal thought given to their origin.  
  
NonononononononoIdon'tlikethatnono  
  
"You're so beautiful, Cora.." Dave seethed, his breath hot against her ear. His fingers were where they should not be. Ever. Never ever.  
  
"Stop!" Cora screamed, pushing mightily with her hands. Dave stepped back, his eyes clouded and dark and full of storm. Cora's vision swam and she felt her knees go from weak to completely insufficient. "Go! Get out! Leave me alone!''  
  
He took another step back, dumbfounded.  
  
"Fucking tease." He spat.  
  
"Go away!" Cora wailed, sinking to the floor. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed, rocking back and forth, back and forth. When she looked up again, Dave was gone.  
  
On her hands and knees ( because her legs did not work ) Cora dragged herself into the bedroom, her pants half sliding off and her shirt hanging from one shoulder. She fumbled through her nightstand drawer, tears and mascara and old, old pain choking her from the inside out. Her hand clasped the familiar object and she breathed a preliminary sigh of relief through the veil of panic and desperation.  
  
The Harpy's curved blade was always sharp.  
  
She was strangely calm as she dragged the point across her skin, watching as flesh split, an empty furrow soon slick with vindicating scarlet. One, two, Three. Four. Five. Shame and guilt and fear trickled down her thighs, little red dots coalescing on the hardwood floor.  
  
She faintly, vaguely, barely remembered Grandpa brandishing the knife and using it to slice the cold, wriggly bellies of fish he caught on the lake. When he died, the weapon had lay unused until Cora's Discovery.  
  
But that was far back, caught in the spiderwebs of forgetting. Now she had the heat of absolution grinning up from her blood-streaked leg.  
  
The knife clattered to the floor and Cora leaned against the bed, her muscles slack and her hands trembling. A sick, satisfied smile spread across her lips.  
  
At least something still worked. 


	6. Chapter 6

( Special thanks to my Daddy for volunteering his mental status exam form for me to plaguerize. Sometimes it's okay to have a real-live psychiatrist in the house. Then again, sometimes it's -not-)  
Clarice was on the road again by ten after eight, having made quick use of the grubby hotel's tepid, rusty shower. It seemed ridiculous now that she'd left so late the night before. Baltimore was just an hour or so drive, and yet some vindictive need to leave had seized her the moment she'd made the decision to follow up on this lead.  
  
Which would probably end up being no more than a wild goose chase, or a sick joke on the doctor's behalf. She'd most likely find the scattered remains of some poorly solved murder case, c/o Hannibal Lecter, another mark against him in the FBI's Big Black Book.  
  
And yet...as the outskirts of Baltimore came into view, she couldn't help but muse over the incongruities. She could not imagine why there had been no further investigation on this Fielding girl's death. After all, it'd been Lecter himself who had found her, at least that's what the article had touted. Granted it was before everyone realized he was a mad, raving serial killer, but she knew protocol. Any death directly linked, or even indirectly linked to him should have been given a second glance after they'd realized what the hell was going on.  
  
As for this moment, Clarice had no real idea where to start. A library would probably not yield much as far as information went. If the death had been ruled a suicide and left as such, there'd have only been one or two articles even remotely referring to the incident. She doubted the obituary would be of any help. Still, it wasn't wise to rule out all sources, so she resolved to visit the Baltimore campus library first. This, unfortunately, would require obtaining permission from the school officials, perhaps even the Dean, but a quick flash of her shiny, newly reprinted badge would probably do the trick.  
  
Fighting her way through the work-rush traffic, it took another hour just to reach the University. Following the signs that directed her to the main campus brought her right by the school housing, which caught her eye for a moment. Were they the same apartments, perhaps? The buildings certainly didn't look new. It was definitely possible that they hadn't been restored or rebuilt since the late seventies.  
  
Squinting against the harsh morning sun, she directed her car towards the admission building, finding it somewhat difficult to tear her eyes away from the apartments dissapearing in her rearview mirror.  
  
...*...  
  
There was something buzzing faintly in the back of Cora's head. It was a sound that occurred intermittently, in bursts of five. Then a cessation for a few minutes, and the cycle would begin again. It took her three instances of attempting to identify the source before the bleary word 'phone' managed to trip across her ragged subconcious. It was with the same dragging lethargy the she stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen to find a way to cease this nerveless racket. The four walls and ceiling seemed to be dancing, and it was not at all pleasant to behold, especially since her brain currently felt as though it was being cleaved in half by a blunt butter knife.  
  
"Hell-O." She stuttered into the evil black reciever, leaning against the fridge for support. Why the fuck was the floor moving?  
  
"Is this Miss Fielding?"  
  
"Yeah." What the hell time was it? A glance to the clock confirmed nine fourteen. In the morning. Everyone knew better than to call her this early. Someone was about to die.  
  
"This is Constance Ryder, from Doctor Lecter's office. I'm calling to confirm your interest in the class Dr. Lecter will be conducting, and to ask if you will be available to meet with him this afternoon."  
  
Oh, God. Too many words. Doctor Lecter. Class. Afternoon. These made sense. Cora found herself nodding, and then realized that the gesture was completely useless.  
  
"Yes...I can...Okay. What time?"  
  
"Two o'clock. Can you be here then?"  
  
"Yup." Not the most eloquent of answers, but it seemed to satisfy this Constance person, who droned out the address again before hanging up and leaving Cora to her own devices.  
  
She stood there for several pregnant moments, one hand on the refrigerator and the other on her forehead. Something was keeping her from remembering what happened the night before, and she was reluctant to push the issue. Dave...something...touching...she shuddered and almost screamed when a pair of tiny paws landed on her shin.  
  
"Cleo." The kitten blinked at her, and then yowled plaintively. A glance to the food dish ascertained the reason, and Cora made quick work of filling the little bowl so the cat would stop making noise.  
  
The trek back to her room seemed far too long to be real. Cora stopped dead in her tracks when she finally pushed the door open. It took some time for her to register the sight of dried blood, puddled and flecked on the floor next to her bed. Her sheets were streaked as well, the substance now gone coppery instead of scarlet. There were handprints on the walls too, side by side, smeared down to the baseboards. Her stomach turned once, twice, and she looked down at her body.  
  
The havoc wreaked upon her thighs was enough to make her dizzy again, but she could not make herself turn her eyes away from the barb-wire slashes. It was this that brought the events of the previous evening more clearly into focus - the bar, drinking...there was a muddled period from the time she got into the car with Dave to the time she remembered screaming for him to get out, but she knew something had happened. That familiar, twisting evil feeling in her gut almost propelled her to sieze the knife again, which was now lying complacently on the bedside table.  
  
"No." She said aloud, laying a protective hand on her upper leg. Willing herself to bypass the blade, she stumbled into the background and turned on the shower, choking back the bile that rose in her throat.  
  
Up until last night, it had been five or six years since she'd lost control enough to hurt herself. It had also been that long since her last sexual expeirience, a particularly vicious memory that still made her cringe. She'd managed to remain a virgin, thus far, through her body's fight or flight mechanism that kicked in every time a man (or adolescent boy, bless their poor little hearts when she screamed at the sight of a bare chest) tried to touch her. She'd given up drinking in high school for that very reason; it lowered her defenses and made her grope for something she thought she wanted. And even when the heated, lippy kisses were recieved without much protest, the next day would always yield a session in the shower where she would scrub and scrub and open her mouth in silent, throat ripping screams.  
  
The water stung the new wounds, but it was a chaste reminder of why she'd never drink again. When she got out of the shower, she could doctor them and weld them shut with a tight bandaid and hope that the scars would fade over time.  
  
Wiping the condensation from the mirror, Cora stepped back and looked at herself. She felt an irrational, strange puff of pride at the glaring red slashes on her thighs.  
  
I control this, she thought as she began combing the the tangles from her pale hair. I control this, and it's damn near the only thing.  
  
Cleo padded softly into the bathroom and settled down by her feet, idly licking the drops of water that had collected on Cora's ankles. She reached down and tufted her fingertips over the kitten's velvet ears, momentarily comforted by the feeling.  
  
Then she turned and faced the bedroom, the splashes of color on her white sheets and hardwood floor. This would take a while.  
  
...*...  
  
A mop bucket, six rags and another shower later, Cora's room was in a much better condition. By this time it was just after noon, and she would have time to launder her sheets in the apartment's facilities before jetting off to her meeting with Doctor Lecter. She hoped the stains would come out in the wash, after all, the sheets had been her favorite.  
  
It was buisness as usual, in other words, and she had resigned not to give another thought to the fiasco of last night. The phone rang just as she was about to walk out the door, and she contemplated letting it ring until the thought that it could be the Doctor's office crossed her mind.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Cor? It's Julia." Came the familiar voice, slightly uncertain. Cora was not prepared for the concern in her friend's tone, and it threw her usual stand-offish approach to Julie's boisterous nosiness for a loop.  
  
"Hey. What are you doing?" Cora replied, shooing Cleo away from the pile of bloody sheets in the middle of the kitchen.  
  
"Uhm...nothing. Hey...Dave said you guys got in a fight last night."  
  
Cora snorted derisively, a noise that masked the cold fire in her stomach at the mention of Dave's name. Of course he said they'd gotten in a fight. The truth was probably too embarrassing - that she'd refused his advances and collapsed on the floor in a fit of sobs. She still could not remember exactly what had happened, but whatever it was, it had been enough to evoke old feelings worthy of self-destruction.  
  
"I wouldn't call it a fight, hon. He tried to...well. It's not important. Why did he tell you?"  
  
"Well, he was worried about you. H-"  
  
"Worried?! Oh Christ, Julia. I can't talk about this right now. I'm going to be late." There was silence for a moment, and the sound of a muffled sigh.  
  
"Alright. But...please, call me later. I want you to tell me what happened. I'd rather hear it from you than from him."  
  
After Cora hung up and was crossing the parking lot for the laundromat, she felt genuinely guilty for being so closed off to Julia. It's just that it was not in Cora's nature to be close to anyone, as the people she'd allowed herself to trust had always, in some way or another, let her down.  
  
Still, she was not prepared to explain the situation to anyone. Because Julia would want to know -why- Cora had reacted so violently, and that would mean the truth of that night in April, with the police and the stench of death and not speaking for six months...  
  
Maybe some day, but not now. The nightmare memory itself was too much, even damn near twenty years later.  
  
...*...  
  
Hannibal smelled the blood on the young woman as soon as she settled into the chair in front of him. It was obvious whatever wounds she had had been recently tended, with...hmm, betadine, iodine. Some kind of mild salve. He was now quite convinced that the young woman was a self-mutilator, something he had only encountered once, perhaps twice in his career. The extent of the damage she had caused herself was unclear, although he knew it must have been formidable for the scent of her blood to reach him so quickly.  
  
Depthless eyes colored like ripe merlot remained passive, none the less. She was perceptive, this one, perhaps more so than any of the other students he'd intereviewed thus far. If he acted oddly, or hinted at his knowledge, she would sense it.  
  
"I hope this meeting was convienient for you, Miss Fielding. I know Saturdays can be somewhat full for students." he began smoothly, his smile soft and fleeting. The diminuitive Miss Fielding appeared, by all accounts, to be a creature of unnatural calm. He wondered at what could have shaken her so severely in a span of twenty-four hours, for he knew the wounds were new. He had not noticed them in their meeting the previous afternoon.  
  
"Yes, Dr. Lecter. I had nothing planned for the afternoon yet, I usually take Saturdays off to relax." Her parry was polite, well-structured, her tone even and nonplussed. "If anything, you've rescued me from lazing about an entire day." The gentle attempt at humor was noted, its propriety perfect for the moment. If anything, this girl was well-schooled in manners and the art of simple, small conversation. Hannibal chuckled with the appropriate amount of appreciation to her jest.  
  
"Glad I could be of some service. Shall we attend to buisiness, then? We'll be deviating a little from the standard status exam, as my goal here is only to ascertain your ability to benefit from this class. I've no interest in psychoanalyzing you or your peers. I just want to make sure you aren't wasting your time."  
  
Cora listened to this mini-monologue, swallowing his justification easily and allowing him to continue with an encouraging nod of her head.  
  
"Good." Hannibal uncapped his pen and glanced up at her, marveling again at how she managed to sit perfectly still, as immobile as the replica bust of Pallas flanking the entrance to his office. "Please state your full name."  
  
"Coralynn Amelie Fielding."  
  
"How old are you?"  
  
"Twenty two."  
  
"What day of the week is it?"  
  
"Saturday."  
  
"I'm going to tell you three objects, and in a few minutes I will ask you to repeat those objects back to me. The objects are apple, pencil, and shoe."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Where are we?"  
  
"Commerce street. In your office. In...in Doctor Lecter's office."  
  
"Count backward from one hundred by sevens, please."  
  
"Ninety three, eighty six, seventy nine, seventy two, s-"  
  
"Good. What is thirty six plus fifteen?"  
  
Cora paused a moment, then answered, "Fifty one."  
  
"Who is the President of the United States?"  
  
"Richard Nixon."  
  
"Spell the word 'human.' "  
  
"H-u-m-a-n."  
  
"Now spell it backwards."  
  
"N-a-m-u-h."  
  
"The objects I asked you to remember a few minutes ago. What were they?"  
  
"Apple, pencil and shoe."  
  
"Good. Now, w-..."  
  
The interview proceeded as any other would, though most of the overtly personal questions were omitted. Hannibal chanced quick glances at the girl as she answered, jotting each tic of the face, each moment spent contemplating an answer, any discomfort the subject appeared to display. When it was over he thanked her politely and flipped his notebook closed.  
  
"Miss Fielding, I see no reason why you would not excell in this course. You are exceptionally bright and seem to be perfectly capable of handling an extra class. If you are still interested, we will be meeting at six thirty every Monday night."  
  
"Thank you very much, Doctor Lecter, both for accepting me and for arranging the class in the first place. I'm thrilled to be learning from one such as yourself." Cora replied, bending down to scoop up her purse. She winced, a quick thing hidden beneath her curtain of hair. The sudden movement thrust the fabric of her jeans flush against one of the slashes on her thigh. The thin, premptory scab cracked and the wound bled anew beneath the layers of gauze she had secured around her leg. Hannibal's nostrils flared.  
  
"Again, it is my pleasure. I'll be seeing you Monday then, Miss Fielding." He stood, rather more quickly than he had intended, for the fresh scent of her blood was making his own rush with adrenaline. True to his perception, the young woman started slightly at his movement, even though the haste with which it was executed was hardly enough to register in the mind of a normal person. Something had happened to this girl.  
  
Cora stood to leave. She did not shake the Doctor's hand, as he had not offered it, instead opting to display a gracious half-nod of his head and a slightly outstretched hand to indicate the door. She turned, crossed the lovely woven carpet, and then paused halfway as though she meant to ask...  
  
"Dr. Lecter...would it be...I mean..." She looked mildly flustered, the first real sign of adverse emtotion he had seen thus far from her. "Could you tell me if a student named David Pellerin will be joining the class as well?"  
  
Now, what would she have to do with that boarish youth? The doctor supressed a menial arch of his brow. Her manner had become decidedly less stable at the mention of his name, and the pained expression on her face read a plea for his answer to be negative.  
  
"No, Miss Fielding. Why do y-"  
  
"Thank you." She replied quickly, her politesse thieved by relief. A flurry of pale rose gold, and she was gone, the door thumping softly shut behind her. 


End file.
